shadows and stones - an original fiction series of gothic, horror, dark fantasy

A misty rain fell on the fifth morning. It was a sign of how far he had sunk into despair, that the water fear, which had tormented him during his imprisonment in the trade ship from Britain, did not spark at the incessant moisture. Had he been able to exhale the air within his lungs, he might have cursed Manawyddan, his deity father, for this abandonment on foreign soil. The slavers, however, had known what they were doing when they left him to die. Angled as his torso now was, only inhalation was possible; trapping each breath, until his lungs burned with the need to release the air. The strength of his legs had failed him on the second day, leaving him helpless to rise the few, precious inches needed to allow exhalation.

If only he had not been weakened by the horror of the waterlogged journey, spent chained to a leaky vessel's hull. Healthier, he might have succeeded in summoning the battle rage, enabling him to change from man to wolf form during his attempt to escape on land. The stupid Romans would have let a wolf go; they revered the animals. Free, he would have found a way home, a safe way that involved little water. Instead, he had barely managed to cripple one of the slavers, before being recaptured. At least he would die as a warrior should, not spend the rest of his days as another man's slave.

Moisture gathered in his hair, forming it into black stalactites around his face. Streams of water trickled down his forehead and cheeks, making his skin itch as though a thousand insects were crawling upon it. At least rain drove away the all too real flies which had been attacking his eyes. A pitiful exchange of one torment for another.

Strained muscles in his right arm twisted in a sudden spasm. Pain shot from the point where the nail entered his wrist to his wrenched shoulder, causing him to inhale sharply. Tortured lungs stretched to admit more air. He thought he had reached the point where pain becomes so familiar it can no longer be felt, but the crushing pressure within his body proved him wrong. A moan managed to slip through his lips.

Unable to form coherent sound, he mouthed a desperate question, "Manawyddan, Father, when am I going to die?"

"Misellum."

Distinctly, it was neither a god's voice nor a man's. It was the Roman tongue, which none of his people had ever learned to speak. And yet, although he could not understand the words, the tone seemed to be one of concern. In five days, when any passers by bothered to notice him at all, they had done so with jeering and scorn.

Opening one eye - a difficult task in his weakened condition - he looked down to the visitor. A wolf, huge, black and shaggy, stared at him from the road below. Real wolves could not speak, he was certain. Perhaps this was a god messenger after all? Longing to ask the wolf its purpose filled him, but to do so would mean raising himself. If a god had sent the wolf, then the god knew what he needed. Wearily, he let the eye close, then reconsidered, opening it again.

The wolf was gone. A woman now returned his gaze; a Roman woman. As still as the wolf, she stood before him, studying him. Her eyes were amber like the wolf's as well. Was she a goddess come to aid him, or were she and the animal just death visions? Straining against the weakness of his body, he pushed with his feet against the stipe to which they had been nailed. Inch by tortuous inch, his torso rose until his back was once more pressed flat against the wood of the cross. In agonizing discharges, his lungs expelled the air that had been trapped for days. Two or three shallow breaths preceded his question.

"Has Manawyddan sent you to be my death?"

Exhausted by the effort, he collapsed once more into his previous, sagging position. Sudden resumption of weight on his wrists caused the fingers of both hands to spasm inwards toward his palms, making him appear to clasp at the nails. Flies, which had been disturbed by the motion, returned to settle around the wounds, which bled freely again.

"Ne movearis, si placet. Te iuvendum revertar mox."

More words without meaning drifted up to his ears, then the sound of sandaled feet moving away on the paved roadway. She was not death then, just another traveler, pausing to stare at a condemned barbarian. The wolf must have been a dream, created by his pain and hope. Once more, he was alone except for the corpse of another slave, decaying on another cross nearby. An already wounded man, that slave had died quickly, on the first day. Why could he have not been so lucky too?

Sunlight pierced the clouds, signaling an end to the rain and a new day. Perhaps it would be his last one. Uninterested in anything but death, he closed his eyes to the dawning world. As he waited for the end, he struggled not to breathe in, trying to spare himself more hours, or days, of burning, inflated lungs. Yet, within his body they hungered, torturing him even more with the longing to pull in just a single mouthful of air.

Sounds of ox carts rolling by, horses clattering and chariots speeding along assailed his ears. He ignored them all, or hated them for giving him death. The sun was now directly above; what had been a comfortable warmth earlier, turned into a tormenting heat. Insects migrated from the neighboring corpse to investigate if he were a fresh feast.

Sudden, sharp and agonizing, a spear point ripped into his abdomen, slicing muscle and flesh in a shallow arc to his hip. Taken by surprise, he jerked backwards, sucking air in a reflex reaction. Collapsing again he felt the air, like fire, trapped in his lungs. Laughter faded away, as his tormentors continued their journey. His consciousness flickered in and out like a dying flame, as the new pain tore through his body and fresh blood poured down his leg.

No one else saw fit to test him that day, so he slipped into a semi-conscious state, where pain was his only reality. Eventually, silence fell upon the road, along with the darkness of night. Traffic ended, as the living found shelter. He woke, disappointed to find himself still alive. Insects continued to work industriously on his flesh, their buzzing all the noise he could hear. Then, the clatter of a single horse, and the squealing of cartwheels gave warning of motion in the distance. Both stopped at the base of his cross. Footsteps on the paving, told him someone was dismounting.

"Propera, Belket, quandocumque aliquis venire potest."

"Sic, Domina."

"Tene equum firmum, Metankh."

"Sic, Domina."

A woman's voice again, and those of two men. There was urgency in their tones, as well as secrecy. Was it the same woman? Had she been real after all? Before he could open his eyes, the nail pinning his feet moved. Bolts of pain shot up to the edge of his groin. The nail turned and twisted inside his feet as someone worked to remove it; every motion sent shudders throughout his body. Finally the nail pulled free from flesh, bone and wood. Unsupported, his feet slipped from the stipe, dropping all of his weight upon his nailed wrists.

"Leva eum, Belket!"

Arms from behind encircled his chest, lifting him up and removing the pressure from his wrists. Suddenly, air pulled into his lungs, the gasping breaths another reflex reaction to the increased pain of his arms. This time, however, the crushing force of his own weight was gone. It felt exquisite to freely inhale the cool night air. It felt even better when he exhaled in a scream.

"Fac ut quiescat!"

"Quomodo, Domina?"

A wad of fabric was stuffed into his open mouth. He didn't care; he was beyond caring. He continued howling into the muffling cloth. The nail in his right wrist jerked about under someone's hand. The nail in his left wrist had become buried in the flesh and took long moments to be worked free, while he screamed into the fabric gag. Suddenly, he was falling forward, his arms freed from the cross. The encircling arms released their grip on his chest. His stiffened body was caught in the grasp of a woman, who eased him to the ground.

"Pone eum in plaustrum celer."

Strong hands took his shoulders and legs, lifting him into the air, then settling him into a bed of hay. Opening his eyes, he gazed at the stars in the sky above. They weren't his stars, this wasn't his land, but his gods had heard him anyway. A jolt indicated the cart was moving. Sighing, he closed his eyes, certain that when he opened them again, it would be in the otherworld.

"Requiesce facile, miselle. Mox tutus eris."

Water was everywhere. Drop by slow drop it beaded on the seams of the galley, only to merge with other drops, forming rivulets that emptied in the center of the hold. There the water was already up to the knees of some of the shorter captives. Of average height, he was lucky, it was only to the center of his calf, but that was enough. He could feel his skin dissolving wherever the water touched.

When two of the captives died, he shamelessly used their bodies to raise what remained of his legs out of the water. It only helped a little though. He could still feel the ocean outside the thin wooden hull. It called out to him, Manawyddan's son.

"Come home to your father," it called. "Come home to the sea..."

Slowly, the water rose in the hold of the galley. Two corpses weren't enough any longer. He piled on more, but the others weren't dying as quickly as the water was rising. He was losing the battle. Fingertips of water lapped at the exposed bones of his feet.

In terror, he tore the wooden ceiling with his bare hands. Splinters of wood drove into his fingers, but he could not break through to the deck above, where he would be far from the encroaching water. The sounds of his effort only brought him to the attention of his captors. Angrily they heaped lengths of chain around him until he could no longer move, then they dropped him into the growing lake in the center of the hold. The water reached for him with the sensual arms of a woman. Opening his mouth to scream, he found himself choking instead as the arms pushed into his lungs.

He woke screaming, drenched in sweat. Muscles, which had become locked into place, protested painfully as he tried to rise. There was no galley around him, no hold, and no water. Then he remembered: six days he had hung upon a cross. Collapsing, he stared upwards until his eyes focused.

A roof hung above his eyes; a bed supported him; a rough blanket covered his naked, filthy body. Bandages had been carefully applied to the nail wounds on his wrists and feet, as well as the spear wound on his abdomen. Already he could feel them healing, though pain still radiated from each injury. As he tested his legs to see if they could move, the weight and sound of chains greeted him. So, he was still a prisoner. His rescuers had not been sent by Manawyddan after all. How typical of a god to lend no help to its offspring.

It didn't matter, though, given time to heal and regain his strength no chain would hold him. He would be free.

A curtain across the doorway was pushed aside. Two slaves entered the room slowly; one carried a platter of food, the other a large bowl and some strips of cloth. Starving, his attention went immediately to the food. During the long boat journey, he had been unable to eat, sickened by the nearness of water. No one had given him any food or drink while he hung dying upon the cross. Hesitantly, the slave set the platter on the floor near the bed. He could smell the slaves fear, and knew it was the reason they did not come closer.

Slowly, painfully, he slipped off the bed. Mangled feet would not support his weight, so he fell to his knees, crawling to reach the platter. Fortunately, the chains were long enough to allow that much motion without hindrance. Like an animal, he grabbed the food, stuffing it into his mouth quickly, lest they change their minds and remove it. His body sang with energy as each morsel was swallowed. Then he felt the touch of a damp cloth upon his back and moisture pouring along his spine.

The sensation of water set off an explosion of panic within him. Fear, anger, and hatred, trapped within for days, overwhelmed him almost instantly. Any reason he may have had left, disappeared under the onslaught of emotion. He had to be free - now. Familiar sensations of nausea and disorientation attacked his mind and body. Joy flooded him as the battle rage twisted his damaged body out of its human shape at last. Now he would show them, he was no ordinary slave - now he would be free.

Shackles clattered to the ground, far too large to hold fast the slender legs of the snarling wolf, which now confronted the two startled slaves. Not waiting for them to react, he spun agilely to his right, grabbing the slave nearest him by the neck. Under the pressure of his powerful jaws, the bones snapped like kindling. The bowl of water shattered upon the ground near his paws, but he didn't care.

Frozen with terror, the second slave stood between him and the doorway. Though his hind paws bled freely from the reopened nail wounds, he managed a graceful leap, easily knocking the man down. The slave was flung, sprawling, through the doorway into the room beyond. Once more teeth and jaws quickly finished their victim, but not before the slave managed a choked scream.

Releasing the corpse, he moved further into this new room. Which way to freedom then? He sniffed in the air for clues, hastily examining the room. Far to the left, he could see a patch of sunlight on the marble floor. Scents of plant life came from that direction as well. A window or a doorway then - either one would serve his purpose. Paws padding silently across stone, he loped towards the light.

"Quid fecisti?"

The woman appeared from another room. Behind her was the doorway he sought. Stopping, he crouched, hackles raised, teeth bared. Where freedom was concerned, he made no distinction between the sexes, he would kill the woman as easily as her slaves if she did not move. A deep growl was his only warning to her.

"Non sic puto, miselle."

The tone of her voice made it clear, the woman planned to be defiant in the face of his threat. Fine then, he would kill her. Muscular hindquarters gathered, then kicked back to send him launching towards her throat. To his surprise, she evaded him easily, ducking beneath his leap, forcing him to land awkwardly on the marble beyond her. He spun to relaunch, slipping the polished stone surface. The injuries of his man shape had transferred to the wolf and were bleeding again. It was imperative that he end this fight soon, and escape.

When he regained his footing and looked up, however, the woman was gone. Instead, the black wolf bitch stood before him. Face to face, she was much larger than he had thought - indeed, almost twice his own size. This would be a formidable adversary.

Because of his failed attack on the woman, the doorway to freedom now lay behind him, unguarded. He realized he could run, abandon the fight, and race for freedom. Without showing signs of submission, he backed towards the exit, never removing his gaze from the black wolf.

The black watched him patiently as he maneuvered, apparently not intending to take the offensive. A trail of his own blood streaked the marble floor, as he continued backing away. If he ran, he would last only a short time before running out of strength and transforming back into a man. The black wolf could easily kill him then. At least now there was a chance for success, or if not success, then a suitable death. Growling and baring his teeth, he made his intention clear. The black wolf responded in kind.

Simultaneously, they leapt. While he went for the bitch's throat, she used her greater mass like a battering ram, smashing him down in mid-leap. His jaws snapped shut on air, as he crashed hard. Rolling to the side, he avoided being pinned by the black wolf, quickly raising himself up to face her again. Circling one another, they both exposed sharp fangs, posturing for dominance. Darting towards him in quick strikes, the she-wolf forced him to retreat further into the house, or risk serious injury.

Angrily, he feigned leaping, dropping at the last minute to go for the throat of his adversary. Taken by surprise, the black wolf could not escape the attack. His teeth dug deep into the flesh of her neck, and he tasted the warmth of her blood on his tongue. Seemingly defeated, the black wolf began to lower herself into a submissive posture, only to twist hard at the last second. Unprepared, he could not hold his grip on her neck, nor could he remain upright. Once more he fell hard onto the marble, this time, however, the black wolf was close enough to put her death grip on his throat.

He waited for the jaws to tear his life out, but was amazed when, instead, they pulled away. In surprise, he turned his gaze on the black wolf, trying to guess her plans. Moving a step away from him, her form began to waver, the outlines becoming insubstantial. Within seconds they solidified once more, leaving the woman, not the wolf, standing before him.

She said nothing. Shocked, he remained lying on the floor, while she lowered herself to her knees beside him. Cautiously, she placed a hand on the fur of his head, stroking it gently. The touch was like a spark. A sensation, like lightening arced from her fingers into his soul. Suddenly, he knew without words that she was kin to him, they were parts of the same whole.

Whining in elation and apology, he crawled closer, burrowing his head in her lap. He had been wrong to doubt Manawyddan, wrong to believe his father had abandoned him, so far from home. Even the pain of crucifixion should not have clouded his heart when he had seen the wolf; it truly had been a sign. She was also of the gods, despite her foreign tongue, and she was his savior.

The battle rage faded away, and with it went the wolf form. As a man he lay in her arms, shaking with a mixture of sorrow, joy, and pain. Then his eyes, facing away from her, fell on the bloody mess he had made of her slaves. No wonder she had chained him, she had known he was too much an animal.

"I'm sorry."

Black hair fell across his eyes as she leaned over him. Her lips brushed softly against the skin of his forehead. He felt the forgiveness and understanding in her touch. Softly, she began singing. Without understanding any of the words, he knew she was giving him comfort. Perhaps he really was in the otherworld now, he felt as though he had died. Sighing, he allowed his exhaustion to overcome him, no longer fearing what would happen when he awoke.

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episode i: journey into darkness - episode ii: tea party - episode iii: awakening
episode iv: the book of grief - episode v: paterfamilias - episode vi: breaking points
episode vii: the dark of the mind - episode viii: decisions
episode ix: momentary distractions - episode x: exorcising demons i
episode xi: porcelain visions - episode xii: the nature of jackals
episode xiii: exorcising demons ii - episode xiv: the invitation
episode xv: body & soul - episode xvi: mothering sunday
episode xvii: imbalance of power - episode xviii: interlude
episode xix: between life and death

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